


Better with a Pen

by SnitchesAndTalkers



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Coffee Shop Hookup, M/M, Panties, Smut, Soul Punk Era Patrick Stump, Strangers to Lovers, Writer AU, author!pete
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-22
Updated: 2018-01-22
Packaged: 2019-03-08 05:02:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13451112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SnitchesAndTalkers/pseuds/SnitchesAndTalkers
Summary: Pete Wentz, the critically-acclaimed author of coming-of-age masterpieceTake This to Your Grave,has a problem.Well, actually, he has two problems 1) writer's block is a goddamn bitch and 2) dealing with the Pretty Guy (capitalisation absolutely intended) settled in the seat opposite him in a trendy Starbucks on the Near North Side.It would be just peachy if he could kill two birds with one stone, wouldn't it?





	Better with a Pen

**Author's Note:**

  * For [the_chaotic_panda](https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_chaotic_panda/gifts).



> A gift for the_chaotic_panda who asked for, and I think I'm quoting her directly here, "twinky, Soul Punk era bottom Patrick." With panties. She wanted me to wait until she'd written me something but you guys have seen how regularly she updates Dead on Arrival and, as she keeps reminding me, I'm so much closer to death than she is. So, I figure it's better to ask forgiveness than permission - what do you say, Panda? Still buddies?
> 
> Abandon hope all ye who enter here...

A laptop, it transpires, is the most wonderful vantage point to partake in a bit of harmless people watching. And everyone in Starbucks has a laptop; students and poets and writers alike tapping away feverishly as they sip their extra hot chai lattes. Yeah, everyone has something to prove these days right down to their coffee shop order. Pete thinks it’s kind of ridiculous; if they really were as unique as they like to pretend they are, they’d be in the indie coffee shop down the street. Instead, they’re lining the coffers of another international conglomerate that does everything it can to avoid paying tax.

 

Pete supposes he’s no better, unfinished novel called up in front of him and pointedly ignored, but at least he’s honest about it.

 

He’s a shitty writer, pretentious and too given to theatrical description; throw adjectives at the screen and see what sticks, that’s his motto. But _someone_ likes it enough to keep buying his god-awful books so he’ll keep his mouth shut about the terrible taste of his readership and keep right on cashing the royalty checks. He glances at his screen at the last couple of lines he’s written and gusts a sigh, slugging back a mouthful of close-to-tepid caramel macchiato. The cream has collapsed and melted along with, apparently, his ability to string together a coherent sentence.

 

If he’s honest, he blames the guy who settled himself in the table opposite Pete’s carefully procured corner seat five minutes after he arrived. Lips a curve of sinful promise, blush pink and pretty, tucked tight under teeth in a bite that should be Pete’s. Eyes that glow with the swell and swirl of riptide, of the lake cast to a tempest by summer storms, every shade of blue and grey and green and fired with gold. Hair an artful twist and fall of white, platinum and gold at the roots. They say blondes have more fun – Pete’s a sucker for testing a theory.

 

Maybe it’s the lack of laptop that’s drawn  Pete’s attention. But, if he’s honest, it’s _way_ more likely that it was the copy of _Take This to Your Grave_ – Pete’s debut novel and the only one he actually _likes_ – resting in hands blessed with slim, elegant fingers. There’s no pretentious drink either, just a black coffee at his elbow as he frowns down at the page, full lips pursed for a moment until he relaxes and bites softly at the lower one sparking unintentional filth and fantasy in his unobserved audience of one. It’s all Pete can do not to groan.

 

He’s been staring for too long. Subtle glances exchanged for the cup of his palm under his chin, eyes lingering against places he’d like to touch. Pretty Guy’s neck is obscured by the thick wrap of a delicately checked scarf but Pete wonders if he moans when he’s kissed there, if he throws his head back, arches his hips and –

 

“Can I, like, _help_ you with something?” Pretty Guy asks, voice the caress of a warm hand down Pete’s spine, the bite of nails into his ass as he rolls his hips. Fuck, that’s better than anything he’s written all morning, he should write that down.

 

Later.

 

Instead, he kicks out the chair opposite him and raises his eyebrows in what he hopes is teasing invitation and not just wanton assholery. He’s pretty good at the latter to be fair, an image he’s cultivated since he decided that _author_ didn’t have to be so different from _rock star_ and sometimes it’s hard to shrug away the façade and behave like a normal human being. Pretty Guy quirks an eyebrow in response, gives him a long, appraising look before shaking his head with a low chuckle and rising to his feet. Pete feels a confident smirk tugging at the corners of his lips as the dude pushes back his chair, picks up his cup and… strolls away to the counter without a backward glance.

 

Pete is affronted. Annoyance flushes him pink in a way he knows sails horrifyingly close to resembling embarrassment. Pretty Guy is reading _Take This to Your Grave_ for god’s sake, Pete’s brooding headshot staring right back at him from the back of the book’s jacket where it lies abandoned on the table. He looks like exactly the kind of asshole English major that would spend hours finding the hidden meaning in each page of _From Under the Cork Tree._ Of course, the private joke is that there _was_ no fucking meaning, it was word vomit, spewed across the pages of a hundred different disjointed word documents when his publisher demanded a sophomore novel and he had no idea what to write. He’d figured it would be rejected out of hand and he’d be relegated to a one hit wonder doomed to fade into obscurity but, somehow, they loved it. It hit the top of the New York Times bestsellers list and he was deemed a literary genius.

 

Anyway. None of that matters. What matters is that someone with enough brains in his head to read the one book Pete’s actually sort of proud of didn’t have the common sense to join him at the table of a trendy North Side Starbucks. Knocked back by some idiot kid with stupid hair, an ugly scarf and…

 

The chair opposite him scrapes back and his vision is filled with that delicious fall of blond caught bright in the gleam of the lights, blue eyes twinkling with a joke he hasn’t shared behind the lenses of his glasses. Pete chokes out a cough that rasps against the back of his throat.

 

“Seriously, dude,” Pretty Guy takes a sip of his steaming coffee and sets the cup down with deliberate precision. “Why were you staring me?”

 

Would it be smooth to say something lightly flirtatious? Something cliché and hackneyed? Something like _only because you’re the most beautiful man in Chicago?_ To offer a seductive little smirk and let everything just fall into place? Pete is an author – a _wordsmith_ – after all, he can weave a web of meaningless pretty bound in honeyed words that fall from insincere lips. He can compliment the almost-spiritual curve of Pretty Guy’s lower lip, wax poetic about the shade of his eyes or the arch of his cheekbones. It’s _easy_ , like closing his eyes and letting his fingertips dance over the keys without thinking, he just has to open his mouth, empty his brain and let something beautiful and profound fall out.

 

He opens his mouth, and something ridiculous crawls out instead.

 

“No, I was looking at _me,”_ Pete corrects him haughtily, nodding toward the book tossed carelessly on the table, the cover a swirl of blues and black, peppered with polaroid pictures that his publisher told him were _indicative of suburban youth._ In reality, Pete had just raided his desk in his mom’s house and pulled out the remnants of the days when he thought he might be a photographer, much like the time he thought he might be a rock star but not as dumb as the time he thought he might be a lawyer. Pretty Guy raises an eyebrow in silent question. “Me. That’s me. Pete Wentz. I’m he.”

 

 _I’m he?_ Oh, God, he’s going to walk out and throw himself off of Navy Pier. There’s no other choice.

 

Pretty Guy frowns at him for a moment and Pete tries not to let the light chap of his lower lip hypnotise him. He takes a moment to press his glasses back up onto the bridge of his nose with a fingertip as he – slowly, deliberately – flips the book over to examine the _about the author_ blurb. He glances up, considers Pete’s face with careful scrutiny, slides his gaze back down and then, like sunlight bursting through the haze of city smog, a grin lights his face.

 

“Well, holy shit,” he makes four syllables last a small lifetime, playful tease dancing in his eyes. “Spank my ass and call me Betsy,” Pete will, if he asks nicely, “it really _is_ you! I mean, older, obviously, but…”

 

Pete would quite like to tell him to kindly go fuck himself but bites off the retort into his cheek, hums something non-committal around a mouthful of room temperature coffee-flavoured milk and reminds himself that Pretty Guy is, well, _pretty._ Fortunately, Pete is vain and, given that this kid had his nose buried in his debut novel that Chicago New Times called an _awe-inspiring page-turner full of nostalgic charm that harks back to summer days and first kisses,_ he figures a little ego-stroking isn’t out of the question entirely. Maybe he’ll get something else stroked, too. If he’s lucky.

 

“You like it?” He nods at the novel still clutched in Pretty Guy’s hands. It’s a stupid question, of _course_ he likes it, every hipster from New York to LA _adores_ it and this is a well-handled copy, spine broken and cracked, pages turned down at the corners. He’d like to bet the inside is streaked with lines of coloured marker, with notes jotted in the margins in pencil.

 

“The book?” Pretty Guy’s eyes widen for a moment – awe, Pete imagines, it must be weird meeting one of his idols – as he huffs out a breath that blows his cheeks. “I mean… Yeah. It’s – it’s okay, I guess. I mean, yeah, it’s great, man. Seriously”

 

“Did you read the others?” Pete asks with as much casual indifference as he can muster. He _must_ have read the others, _everyone_ has read the others, searching for the elusive link between _Infinity on High_ and _Foli_ e à _Deux_. He reads the message boards, the insane theories that this character is masquerading as that one, that it’s all a dream, all a fucked-up medication trip. It’s bullshit, there _is_ no link but he’ll put money on this guy having a theory of his own.

 

There’s loaded silence between them for a moment, enough time for Pretty Guy to take another sip of his coffee as he traces the tip of his finger over the lines of the title. Pete casually wonders how those fingers might feeling mapping the ink stained into his skin. One thing that still surprises Pete about becoming a published and recognised novelist of the kind of shit that professors love to analyse to death is the groupies. The English majors that flock to his signings and slide their numbers across the table to him, the ones that hang out at the places he’s known to write to try and exchange a few affected words for a night in his bed. He takes them gladly, the pretty boys and girls, silently amazed at how much a few strokes of his keyboard has gotten him.

 

Pretty Guy is still staring down at the book, lips pulled straight, brow creased in something that could be concentration, could be shyness. Probably trying to think of the best way to phrase his fan theory.

 

“Well?” Pete prompts, momentarily distracted by the way the lapel of Pretty Guy’s blazer has folded back on itself. There’s a fresh flower in the buttonhole – a pretty pink gerbera – who the hell _does_ that in 2011?

 

“Wow, so,” Pretty Guy holds up his hands – elegant hands, pale hands, hands that would look great against the curve of Pete’s cock – and quirks a grin. “I mean, honestly, I just don’t know how you went from being basically the next Hemingway to mashing the keyboard with both fists and hoping for the best. Oh, hey, I’m Patrick by the way.”

 

Pete blinks. He stares at _Patrick_. He thinks his mouth might be open – yeah, there’s a ruffle of a breeze on his tongue as someone pushes open the door – so he snaps it shut with a pathetic cough. Okay, _he_ knows his novels are total horseshit but people like Patrick, people with peroxide-bright 80s hair and hipster glasses, people who wear blazers with skinny fit pants and a scarf indoors, people with a fucking _gerbera_ tucked into their buttonhole, _those people_ are supposed to think he’s _awesome._

 

Patrick is still just _staring_ at him with a knowing sort of half-smirk tucking up the corner of the petal-plush softness of his lips. Something dark and knowing twinkles in his eyes as he takes a moment to check his phone, tap at the screen for a second then his eyes slide back to Pete’s as he shrugs delicately, lips shifting around the heated porcelain curve of his coffee cup. His glasses fog and he blinks like he doesn’t realise he’s adorable, taking a moment to wipe them clean against the edge of his scarf and – seriously – is that a _bowtie?_ Who the hell is he, Doctor goddamn Who?

 

“So,” Pete begins lightly, rubbing at the rough grate of four days of stubble that lines the curve of his jaw. Patrick’s is smooth, he notices, the skin looks soft and Pete would like to bet he smells of something fresh and expensive. “You’re not a fan.”

 

 _“Au contraire, mon ami,”_ Patrick steeples his index fingers and, in a move Pete is convinced he knows is utterly and hopelessly captivating, presses them to the lush plush of pouted lips. It’s almost too much, the fingertips nudged to the dampened seam like sin, his mouth giving soft as butter and sweet as the macchiato in Pete’s cup. It’s the way the crown of his cock might nudge to the curve of them, the way they might look smeared and slick with pearl-shine pre-come and _seriously_ , he needs to start writing this shit down. Patrick continues after a pause loaded with playful, unspoken flirtation. _“Take This to Your Grave_ was the book that defined a generation. In honesty, I thought you were robbed of that Booker International back in 2004.”

 

“I _totally_ was, right?” Pete agrees, elbows propped to the table as he leans closer. They’re about to cover his favourite subject; The Talent of Pete Wentz. He’s expansive, hands twitching emphatic distaste against the laminated lets-pretend-its-teak surface of the table that stretches between them. Laptop shoved aside in favour of pretty eyes that move closer in unison until their forearms are close to touching he continues, voice low and rough. “I swear to God, that whole thing was rigged bullshit from the start. Gerard fucking _Way?_ The guy can barely string a sentence, his prose is like teenage poetry. _Bad_ teenage poetry, the emo LiveJournal crap. _Vampires Will Never Hurt You?_ They fucking _will!_ They’re _vampires!_ Everyone thinks they can write a novel but it’s… it’s _hard_ , you know?”

 

“Is it?” Patrick’s still smiling like he knows a secret, like there’s something he’s not sharing with Pete and he almost feels like he recognises him. It’s as though he’s seen that smile before, those eyes behind blocky frames but where? When?

 

“Well,” he flicks a doubtful glance at his laptop, _Use Your Disillusion_ stares back defiantly, the word count sitting resolutely below ten thousand. God, why does he have to go to the effort of actually _typing_ them? Can’t they just make their way from his head to his Pages document propelled on thought alone? “I guess it’s hard if it’s good.”

 

He leaves out the fact that nothing he’s written for the past seven years has even approached “good,” that he’s barely managed to hit “passable,” although for some reason the critics think otherwise.

 

“Maybe,” the maddening smirk hovers over lips like sunrise, bright with hope and promise of all the possibilities before the realities are solid. It’s time for a change of subject.

 

“Anyway, what are you, English Major at U of C?” He flashes his most charming grin, the one he keeps for journalists and his agent when he’s done something he shouldn’t. “Maybe I could… help you with your dissertation?”

 

“Excuse me?” Patrick raises an eyebrow and Pete smiles, soft with invitation and eyes brimmed with sincerity he’s learned just how to fake.

 

“Well, you know,” he drops his voice low so Patrick has to lean closer to hear. “Pretty guy like you, maybe we could have a few _study sessions_ and – ”

 

“I’m twenty-seven, dumbass,” Patrick rolls his eyes in a way Pete thinks isn’t entirely deserved. Come on, the kid could definitely pass for college age, it’s a _compliment_ for Christ’s sake. “I haven’t been on a college campus in five years.”

 

Pete bites off a sharp reply into the ragged skin that frames his thumbnail, worrying it between his teeth mostly so that Patrick can imagine the way his lips might look pursed around his cock. He’s not sure it’s working as Patrick raises unimpressed eyebrows in response before moving to scoop up his book and phone, his voice tinged with condescension as he rises to his feet.

 

“Well, man, it’s been… fun, seriously. Good luck with… whatever _that_ is,” he gestures vaguely at the laptop between them, screen half tilted towards him and Pete snatches it back defensively.

 

“That’s… it’s fucking _confidential_ , asshole,” Pete spits, panic bright in his chest. “It’s all copyrighted! Everything! It’s… when it leaves my brain it’s… I have _lawyers_ and…”

 

“I’m not gonna plagiarise _that,”_ Patrick assures him, _“that,”_ spat sharp and bitter with a grimace, a bad taste to be expelled quickly from the tip of a soft, pink tongue _._ “Oh, and by the way, _bemused_ doesn’t mean what you think it does. _Everyone_ laughs at you for that.”

 

Pete stares at him, open-mouthed with shock because _no one_ talks to him like that. He casts about desperately for a snappy reply but the words slip through his fingers maddeningly, stuttered syllables sliding sticky and hot to fumble over his tongue and useless lips. What _does_ bemused mean? He’ll worry about that later. Patrick shoves his phone down into his pocket, fumbles for the book and, clumsily careless, sends it fluttering to the floor in a flurry of rustling pages. There’s something in the panic that darts across Patrick’s face that makes Pete take interest, that makes him reach out for the book in the same second that Patrick lunges with the desperation of a man floundering for the last lifebelt. Patrick is quick but Pete is quicker, snatching it from under him as he stammers something flustered and hot into the twine of his scarf.

 

Pete doesn’t look at him right away, leafing through it with lips pursed and eyebrows drawn low on his brow. He was right; it’s annotated and analysed, exclamation points scored like love songs with lyrical lines traced bright as abstract paintings in neon highlighter. All of his favourite passages, the ones that made him glow with pride as he slipped the bound manuscript into messenger envelopes, scored out and worshipped and adored in handwriting that changes from scruffy teenage scrawl to looped and elegant cursive.

 

He flips to the inside cover and there it is, just as he knew it would be.

 

_Patrick, the pen is the barrel of the gun; which side are you on? Pete Wentz_

“I fucking _knew_ it,” Pete crows, triumph bright in his eyes and staining his voice with something close to hysteria as he points a finger sharply at Patrick. “You came to one of my signings!”

 

“I was _nineteen_ , okay?” Patrick snatches at the book, discomfiture writ across each pretty feature painted pink and lovely under the artificial light above them. Pete jerks it away and behind his back like a grade schooler. “You were my idol. I – I told you so and you were an _ass.”_

Pete frowns; _that_ doesn’t sound right. He’s the very image of charm at signings and readings and endless, monotonous book tour talks when he makes the pretentious ramblings of his follow up novels make sense in ways he knows aren’t true. “What did I say?”

 

Patrick scowls at him, flushed warm, lip bitten white under the ivory gleam of his teeth. There’s a beat or two of silence when Pete thinks he might just leave – _please, God, don’t let him leave_ – but then he sighs, irritated.

 

“You told me I had the potential to be cute,” he raises his chin, painted bright with defiance. “You called me a twink and told me to come back in a couple years when I wasn’t jailbait.”

 

And here he is.

 

“That doesn’t sound like something I’d say,” Pete lies as easy as a lyric as he pushes the book back into Patrick’s hands with all of the casual indifference he can muster.

 

“You calling me a liar?”

 

No, he’s very much twisting the truth beyond all recognition _himself,_ thank you very much. Still, he’s come this far… it’s not beyond the realms of possibility that this is salvageable and he can still get his dick sucked.

 

“Okay, but I was, what? Twenty-four?” Pete shrugs. “Do you really think I’d say that _now.”_

He said something similar to a kid in Cincinnati last week. Wow. Maybe he should update his technique?

 

“You’re an awful human being,” Patrick informs him - crisply cutting - as he swings his messenger bag over his shoulder, battered book shoved down into its depths with fingers that caress the cover for just a moment too long to be casual. Okay, maybe a blowjob really _is_ out of the question. Pity. He turns, takes three steps that leave Pete’s heart a messy throb against his ribs, pulsing rich and hard as he stares at the curve of an ass that’s plush with promise. As he reaches the door, fingers wrapped around the handle like the filthiest parody Pete’s ever seen, Patrick pauses and glances back over his shoulder with a devil of a smirk that lights fire in Pete’s groin and clenches his gut tight with lust. “You coming or not?”

 

Oh, Pete is definitely coming.

 

He slams his laptop closed and slides it into the bag, hands fumbling frantically for his phone, his wallet, his keys as he swings it over his head and hurries past tables and chairs and kids with their laptop cables trailed like trip traps. The streetlights on the sidewalk are blinding, offset against the flare of headlights on the road, his vision contracting to white for a moment as he blinks, breathes, looks left then right. Patrick is leaning against a street light, one foot tucked up behind him and hands sunk into his blazer pockets and a smirk curled like mockery over his lips.

 

“Thought you’d changed your mind,” he casts Pete in a glance that burns like a brand, that undresses him and assesses him and fucks him until he aches. All in a look, all in a flicker of eyes like storm clouds, like tempests and the crash of surf against sand. Skin against skin. Hips against hips. Everything in a glance.

 

A car pulls to the curb; expensive, understated, privacy glass and paintwork like mirrors. Pete arches his eyebrows as Patrick reaches for the door handle, sharp with unspoken questions.

 

“Ordered an Uber,” he shrugs, already sliding onto leather upholstery that Pete knows will feel like silk to the touch. “Guess we lucked out, huh?”

 

For the first time in his life, Pete doesn’t have a witty retort, doesn’t have the usual sensual syllables to roll from his tongue to slide him between the sheets of someone he wants. Somehow, he’s been played at the game he thought he understood so well, his king held at checkmate as he slides into the car. Patrick watches him from behind the fortress of mirrored glass, lips quirked as Pete effects an air of bored nonchalance.

 

“Your place or mine?” he asks, casually indifferent.

 

“Well, since the driver has _my_ address…” Patrick lets that hang in the silence between them like stars fired against the canvas of a frigid sky. Pete wants to kiss him, wants to devour those lips, feel the snag of them where they could use a slick of Chapstick, taste the bitter burn of coffee against the tongue that flashes to dab at the plump curve of them.

 

But he doesn’t.

 

Patrick casts him in uncertainty, leaves him confused and adrift as he folds his hands in his lap and watches the way Patrick’s knee bounces, the way he chews at his thumbnail as the city rolls by. If Pete thought they would head away from the affluent north side he’s quickly proven wrong, the driver turning the car towards Gold Coast and Old Town, cruising past towering palaces of shining glass. The sweeping boulevards give way to tree lined streets, the buildings falling in height to red bricked town houses, the gentle scent of money wound around it all as he fires a curious glance at Patrick.

 

It isn’t returned – or maybe it is, impossible to tell behind the lenses of his glasses turned to mirror-shine by the glow of the passing streetlights – Patrick’s fingers laced in his lap as they drive in silence save for the trickle of Bowie on the sound system. They stop eventually, a building all grey brick and solid wood sash windows, a declaration of sympathetic restoration, the kind of place a realtor would call an ideal family home for one of the handful of Chicagoan families with a hope of affording it. Patrick leads the way to the front door in silence, key in the lock as Pete follows behind, eyes trained on the curve of an ass to die for cupped to perfection in painted on pants.

 

The inside is exactly what Pete imagined – stripped wood, exposed brickwork and pipes masquerading as light fixtures in a display of expensive, understated and tasteful masculinity.

 

“What did you say you do for a living?” he asks, eyebrows raised as Patrick slips off his sunglasses, shoes nudged into a closet and scarf and jacket tossed over a hook. He turns to Pete, blue eyes blinking in the shadow of the hallway, nervous smile and restless hands tugging at his suspenders.

 

“I – I uh… I guess I didn’t,” he shrugs shyly – trust fund kid, Pete decides immediately – cheeks flushed as he gestures awkwardly to Pete’s boots. “Would you, uh… I mean, if you wouldn’t mind?”

 

Pete kicks off his boots deliberately slowly, shrugs out of his leather jacket then glances up to meet a gaze tinged hot with hunger and heavy with need. He grins – bright as wildfire, darkened like starlight – as he snags the hem of his shirt in both hands and sweeps it up and over his head. Patrick’s gasp is ragged, his breathing rough and laboured as he dithers, unsure and uncertain, hands shoved down into the pockets of his pants like he needs to force himself not to touch.

 

“Hey,” Pete steps closer, barely a foot between them as Patrick’s eyes bulge and his cheeks flood crimson and hot. Pete slides his hands to narrow hips, thumbs sneaking under the neatly tucked hem of Patrick’s shirts to brush smooth, warm skin.

 

“Hi,” Patrick reaches up tentatively, lower lip snagged between his teeth as he grazes a fingertip along the necklace of thorns that loops elegantly over Pete’s collarbones. He sighs, the ruffle of breath light against Pete’s skin, palm pressing flat to the leanly muscled plane of Pete’s pectoral before he glances up, gaze golden under honey blonde lashes, tongue a flash of pink against the plump plush of his lips. Pete reaches up to touch that mouth, to test the press of the lush sweep of his lower lip with the calloused press of his thumb.

 

Patrick catches his wrist in a warm grip, lips parting and eyes falling closed as he takes the press of Pete’s fingers into his mouth. He sucks slowly, the sensual curve of his tongue flooding every drop of blood from Pete’s brain to his cock as he springs hard against the tight press of his jeans. Patrick sags back against the wall behind him, eyes fluttering open as he gazes up at Pete, lips pursed obscenely around the golden curve of Pete’s fingers, tongue flickering against the tips. Fuck, but it’s such a porny little trick, a cheap shot designed for effortless titillation but it _works_ , the warm damp of Patrick’s mouth against his fingers enough to have him throbbing as he groans encouragement into the delicately curved shell of his ear.

 

He withdraws his fingers to slide them into platinum blonde hair, to drag the damp press of those lips flush to his own as he explores the tender sweep of a talented tongue. Patrick moans into his mouth, hands pressed up above his head as Pete slips a leg between his, grin quirking his lips as Patrick grinds the growing press of his cock into Pete’s thigh with a moan that shimmers prettier than any prose Pete has a hope of producing. No, his fingers can’t summon anything quite so exquisite from a keyboard, but they can conjure beauty breathed on breathless moans from a pretty-lipped stranger.

 

Pete’s finds the edge of Patrick’s bowtie, fumbling it free until it’s loose against his collar. He scores each button of Patrick’s shirt with finesse, popping them expertly as Patrick groans approval into the hollow of Pete’s collarbone. Patrick cries out, desperation cracking his voice as he ruts into Pete, rocking hips and parted lips, skin flush-bright and burning and Pete would fuck him over the couch in the hallway if he didn’t want so much more.

 

“Bedroom?” he suggests, fingers writing poetry into warm, smooth skin he won’t allow himself to admire just yet. Patrick nods frantically, hand lacing with Pete’s as he leads him silently up the sweeping staircase, down a hallway bright with moonlight and into a bedroom dominated by a queen size bed – Pete quirks an ironic grin at that – made up with navy sheets. He snags a hand into Patrick’s hair once more, tilting his head back with a growl, swallowing the mewl of desire that trickles over plump parted lips. He feathers his tongue against the flicker of Patrick’s, tastes coffee and need, oh, he’s such a _needy_ little shit.

 

“Pete,” he breathes, the shock of it jolting on shimmering sound waves to vibrate a beat along the length of Pete’s cock. “Please…”

 

Pete bites his approval into the soft flesh of Patrick’s throat, teeth dragging heat against porcelain pale skin that smells of lemongrass and ginger. Patrick moans, head tipped back and fingertips sunk with aching need into the small of Pete’s back, his desire marked by ten thin lines of artificial pale bitten into ink-stained gold. Pete has him out of his shirt in a moment, soft lines of snow-smooth skin laid out, the delicious perk of blush-bright nipples begging for the press of calloused thumbs, for the touch of a tasting tongue. God, but Pete _wants._

It’s Patrick that blinks first, reaches for his belt buckle, slides down his zipper and pops the button on his pants with a whine of relief. Pete kisses him breathless, tongue tracing teeth and soft flesh stained with spit as Patrick shuffles out of his pants, as he kicks them to one side then wriggles away to sprawl back on the bed in open invitation.

 

He lands against the sheets – starkly pale and soft against the ink-dark bedding and Pete wonders if he chose it on purpose, aware of how good he looks all highlighted like marble – sweetly supplicant and devilishly tempting. He lands like sin embodied, hands above his head and crossed at the wrists, hips arched in silent request and thighs spread. He twists against the sheets with a moan too provocative to be accidental, the flash of lace stretched taut over the strain of his cock enough to send Pete’s twitching a reply.

 

Panties.

 

Dove grey satin, edged with lace as soft as whispered kisses, darkened and damp over the tip of his prick. Pete’s eyebrows migrate for his hairline as his hand gropes for his cock, squeezing hard, deep breath drawn and hissed through teeth clenched like a grimace. Patrick smiles like it’s funny. Pete resolves to knock the smirk from his face, to twist it into something else, something tight with need and bright with longing, something that tastes of cock and come and sweat exchanged against crisp sheets.

 

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me…”

 

“Don’t you like them?” Patrick asks, lip bitten in an imitation of coyness. Pete resolves to say something clever, something brilliant and self-assured, some honeyed platitude that makes Patrick cock jerk under the satin-soft shimmer that cages him.

 

“Fuck,” he breathes instead.

 

He crosses to the bed slowly, each step deliberate, the weight of Patrick’s gaze against the sweat-shine of his tattoos enough to make his skin tingle like stuttering electric shocks. Patrick doesn’t move, legs spread, hips raised and arms above his head. From what Pete can see under satin and lace, he thinks Patrick might wax. His cock throbs hard at the thought.

 

He kneels between thighs as smoothly pale as heavy cream, fingertips trailing and testing the plush press of skin and muscle. Patrick’s eyes fall closed, head tilted back as he whimpers softly and Pete is falling, losing himself in the need to touch and taste, to smell and feel and hear each sugared sound he can draw from Patrick’s throat.

 

There may be something religious in the way Patrick’s throat contracts around a moan as Pete’s lips skim silk-soft skin, something spiritual in the arch of his back as Pete’s teeth find the perk of a delicately pink nipple, sharp sting soothed with the delicate feather of a talented tongue. Oh, but those noises are glorious, impossible to tie to paper as he nips over the line of Patrick’s ribs, licks the delicate hollow of his navel and sucks the bitter-salt tang from the tip of his prick through sheer, soft satin, leaving it spit-dark and straining.

 

“Please,” Patrick gasps like a fervent prayer, hands still twisted over his head like he’s bound there – interesting; possibilities for next time? Next time? What the hell is he thinking? “Oh fuck, Pete, _please…”_

“What do you want, Patrick?” he asks, sucking sharp and burning at his thighs, the bordeux bloom of breaking bruises bright against skin as pale as moonlight. “Tell me…”

“Please,” he whispers once more, the sight of his cock flushed pink and pretty under the stretched out lace almost too much for Pete to bear. “Just… please…”

 

He mouths over hot skin dressed in slick satin, sucking kisses to his shaft, licking lust over the tight tuck of his balls. Patrick shifts, grinds, writhes his desperation against the feather-brush of Pete’s mouth, always wanting, always not-quite-enough. But close. So close. He hums under Pete like a bassline, skin a shimmer of needy vibration as his nails sink into his wrists. Fuck, but he’s pretty all flushed and needing. He catches the waistband between the snag of his teeth, pearl-shine grin dancing light as air between them as Patrick whines desperation into the haze of heated want that surrounds him, hips bucking like a declaration.

 

Pete drags the panties down, caught tight in his teeth as heat and hardness brush his cheek, the flushed slick tip of Patrick’s cock marking a trail of desire against the stubbled scrape of his skin. Patrick sighs approval like a hallelujah, hands shoved under the pillows above him as though he needs the weight to hold him down, to keep him steady as the panties slip away and he’s exposed entirely to circulated air and the weight of Pete’s gaze.

 

“Fucking pretty,” Pete slurs, lust-drunk and hazed with aching desire, tongue capable of little else but worshipping the man laid out like a banquet of questionable decisions beneath him. He scores a rosy nipple with his fingertips, draws a gasped moan from fuck-flushed lips as he sinks his grip into the plush press of a pale hip. “I want to…”

 

He trails off, not sure of exactly what he wants, unwilling to limit himself to a screenplay when he could freestyle his way like a beat poem. He feels his lips curve into a smirk, watches the way Patrick’s eyes darken like storm waves, like summer sky at dusk, then he sucks him down. Patrick keens a cry, spine slamming straight as he jolts like he’s been shocked, ragged breath hauled through parted lips as Pete works his tongue around the head, circles the delicate underside with a tracing tease of the tip. The heat of his palm finds the flush of his own cock, snaking down to slide into the impossibly tight press of his jeans, relief rolling him dizzy as he rubs himself half-mad, his hand damply slicked with the leak of his prick.

 

There’s the wet slide of Patrick’s dick against his lips as he pulls off, harmonising and flowing with the needy little whine that rolls from him as he blinks back to sanity. Pete’s still tugging his cock, hand still jammed down the front of his jeans as Patrick sits, grabs his wrist and pulls Pete’s hand to his mouth. He can smell the musk of his own cock as Patrick presses his nose between his fingers with a groan, then he’s licking, the press of a soft, pink tongue lapping at the slick of sweat and come. It’s more than Pete can bear, enough to have him tugging the front of his pants down, releasing the aching throb of his cock as Patrick sighs his delight into the curve of his palm.

 

“Can I blow you?” he asks, all eager light in shining eyes as Pete nods dumbly, shuffling to sit on the edge of the bed as Patrick drops to his knees in front of him. His pants and shorts are gone, tugged away, dropped somewhere inconsequential that he’ll definitely worry about later as pursed lips find the blood-gorged flush of the crown of his cock. Patrick licks, tongue a hot, wet slick against aching, nerve-bold flesh that has Pete biting his scream into the inside of his cheek. Rose-painted lips tuck into a smirk as he parts them, slides the head between them, then with slow and deliberate grace, he proceeds to take Pete apart in ways he’s never felt before.

 

The slide of spit-slippery skin against the ache of his cock has never felt so good, the pull of lush lips against nerves, veins and skin like the roll of the waves against the shore of the lake. He spreads his legs a little further, cups the curve of Patrick’s jaw, thumb finding his chin to part his lips further, just a delicious fraction of an inch. Patrick takes him down, cock finding the tight heat of his throat as he gazes up like an angel defiled by press of a blood-dark prick between his lips. There should be words, beautiful exposition flowing from the inspiration of the curve of that pretty mouth stretched around him, something moving and profound but there’s only blinding white light, the crest of sunrise on the horizon, perfect, bright heat wrapped in a honey sweet mouth working his cock.

 

Patrick moans like Pete is all he needs, lapping the curl of his tongue along the shaft, sucking the delicate pull of Pete’s testicles into his mouth one at a time. He moves back to his cock, tasting him with a blissful smile, a joke he won’t let Pete in on as he sucks him like he knows every button Pete has and intends to press each one as slowly and deliberately as possible.

 

“You…” _have to stop_ , he wants to add, but he won’t give any quarter right now, won’t admit that the slick of sweet lips against his flesh is enough to have him trembling like a fifteen-year-old kid getting his first hand job behind the bleachers. “I’m gonna fuck you.”

 

Patrick shivers, a whole-body shudder that shakes him insensible, eyes fluttering closed as he nods with fervent need. He licks a curve around the tip of Pete’s cock – as tender and sensitive as an open wound – smile smug as Pete bucks his hips and buries a grunt in teeth sunk into the plush of his lower lip. Fuck him for having such a devastating effect on him.

 

It’s like a sleight of hand, like a cheap magician’s trick as Patrick resumes his position on the bed, legs spread, arms up and over his head, but this time there’s the glint of foil by his hip, a bottle of lube slung like an accusation. Pete can feel control slipping away from him and that’s not what he wants dammit, he wants this beautiful man to beg for him, to plead for relief and pray for his cock. He straddles the narrow tuck of Patrick’s hips, one hand wrapped around elegant wrists, shoving him down into the mattress with a growl as the other tangles in platinum-bright hair. He yanks back Patrick’s head, exposes the pale line of his throat and sucks a bruise to his Adam’s apple, the gasp lost on stolen breath that shimmers between them as their eyes meet.

 

“Face down,” Pete breathes. Patrick nods.

 

He rolls to his front, presents the rounded swell of his ass for Pete’s inspection, the smooth curve of it peach perfect against his hands. Pete shuffles back, sits over Patrick’s calves as he runs his hands lightly over the full press of it, as he ducks his head to bites bruises into skin as smooth and unmarred as satin. He spreads him open, presses kisses everywhere but over the twitching tightness of his hole, lets his tongue wander over every inch but where Patrick craves him most. Patrick whines his desperation into his pillow, fists clenched in sheets as dark and flawless as the night sky that glows with promise beyond the bedroom window, shines as vibrantly against the dark as silvered moonlight. He flickers his tongue over the delicate pucker, just once, just enough to make Patrick buck and cry out, a ragged shout of _Pete_ before he stills, a shake of shuddering nerves as Pete licks a line up the valley of his spine.

 

The condom is freed from the plastic-coated foil, rolled down the blood-flush length of his prick as Patrick ruts against the mattress beneath him. The click of the lube cap echoes impossibly loud between them, both of them drawing tense as he squeezes a cool slick over his fingers, drizzles a generous amount between Patrick’s cheeks. He explores with questing fingertips, sinking subtle into the press and give of Patrick’s hole, one knuckle, two, crossed fingers for luck as he slides inside, fucks him raw and open and ready for the swell of his cock.

 

“You want this?” he groans like a bad porn film. “You want my cock? Come on, let me hear you say it…”

 

“Oh fuck, I want you,” Patrick sobs frustration into his sheets, twisted cotton caught against the glow of his knuckles as he writhes and begs. “Please. I want this _so_ fucking badly…”

 

Pete pulls his fingers free and replaces them with the flushed swollen head of his cock, teasing the rim of Patrick’s hole. Patrick whines beneath him, barely intelligible pleas squeezing out over honey-sweet lips, the squirm of his hips an experience Pete thinks must be close to religious. He pushes in the head, just breaching him, just beginning to force him open as Patrick pulls taut and stiff beneath him with a gasping groan. Nails sink into the alabaster stretch of slender hips, flesh giving under the push and press of them, cresting glowing crimson crescents on the unmarred perfection of snow-soft skin.

 

Pete sinks into him with a moan, chest vibrating with the effort of it as he sheathes himself in tight heat, as Patrick writhes beneath him with a hiss of _oh fuck, Pete, yes, yes more._ He twists his fingers into the satin of bleach blonde hair, tugs it tight and testing as he hisses his approval over the roll of Patrick’s spine, “Fuck yeah.”

 

He starts to move, rutting his hips in desperate little thrusts as Patrick keens a love song of feather-soft moans beneath him. He wants cries, wants screamed profanity and wailing pleas, he wants Patrick to beg him for everything, to take the world apart for him and reassemble it into something that burns through his veins like blood. He twists his fingers a little harder into Patrick’s hair, shoves him down a little more firmly into the mattress then fucks into him with desperate, greedy grunts and shattered moans that sing over his skin.

 

Patrick gives him everything, the tight clench of him around Pete’s cock like perfection, the mist of sweat on his skin lending a slick shine to everything and a burn of salt to Pete’s tongue as he sinks his teeth into the sinew stretch of his shoulder. Patrick cries out, a hoarse prayer for more, for everything Pete can give, thighs parting in unspoken plea that Pete takes with burning gratitude. He can feel each stutter of fluttering muscle against his shaft, each curve of Patrick’s body beneath and around him, smell the tang of lube and sweat layered sweet with skin and expensive cologne. He won’t last long, _can’t_ , as he pulls Patrick up to his knees, hands braced to the headboard and whispers instruction into his ear.

 

“Touch yourself,” he mutters and Patrick does, hand fumbling for his cock, moaning his relief into the line of his shoulder as his eyes meet Pete’s, bright and wanting. Pete slides both hands to Patrick’s hips, back to his cheeks to spread him open just that little bit more, to watch the way his cock plunges in and out of his fuck-stretched hole. Patrick whispers something barely intelligible, something that stutters like shivers down Pete’s spine.

“Oh fuck, yeah, watch, want you to watch.”

 

Pete groans.

 

He bites his determination into Patrick’s neck, the sharp imprint of his teeth scored in ruby to match the bruises that litter Patrick’s body like unspoken claims of ownership. He won’t come first, won’t give the little shit the satisfaction as he wraps his hand over Patrick’s and jerks him quick and firm. Patrick whines, high and sweet, hips stuttering unsteadily as his back arches, his thighs trembling as he tenses tight around Pete’s cock. With a stammering cry, he ribbons white across the dark of his sheets, collapsing forward with a whine as they work together to jerk him through each shuddering aftershock. His body ripples around Pete, each clench of the tight depth of him another spurt of pearl bright silk from the tip of his cock, each one a whining whimper that shudders through Pete. Finally spent, he droops, a deadweight against Pete’s arms for a moment.

 

“I’m… I want to come on you,” Pete grinds through gritted teeth, pulling out slowly. Patrick nods with a groan and Pete yanks off the condom, determined to scatter the pale expanse of Patrick’s back with the shine of his orgasm, to jerk himself raw to the curve of Patrick’s spine and the line of his hips. But by the time he turns back to his task Patrick is on his back beneath him, smirking up a challenge with parted lips as he runs a fingertip down the arch of his cheekbone.

 

“Here,” Patrick instructs, fingertip trailing over the sweep of his lips and Pete could come undone untouched, just from watching him, just from _hearing_ him in that voice like darkest temptation. He nods, straddles Patrick’s chest and braces a hand to the headboard as he strokes himself swift and hard. Patrick whispers encouragement, murmurs filth as he rubs Pete’s thighs, traces the lines of the tattoo below his navel and Pete groans his need into each choppy tug at his dick.

 

Warmth pools between his hips, the lava-slow trickle of aching need sliding lower to suffuse through his groin. He feels it start, feels the unpicking of the threads that hold his edges together, the shimmering perfection that trickles over his skin like fire. He cries out softly, a stammered gasp of _oh Patrick, oh fuck YES, Patrick,_ as he loses himself in eyes the colour of riptide that threaten to drag him under the surface and drown him. It hits him like a falling star, like the crest of a planetary horizon glowing bright with ethereal light. Each glorious throb of it echoes through him, through each atom that holds him together until he’s nothing but shuddering neutrons colliding, collapsing, thrown against one another in stuttering perfection.

 

His cock slicks wet with come, the pulsing, messy throb of liquid heat spilling over the clutch of his fist to splash against the parted lips and rose-flushed skin of Patrick beneath him. He sees the smile stretching lips stained with bitter salt, thrums with the way blue eyes watch him sharp and needing. He watches – enchanted – and shudders each stroke of his orgasm with a blissful cry until he’s still and sated, braced over him on shaking thighs. Patrick smiles a little wider, catches hold of the hand cradled around the softening swell of his cock and draws it to his cheek, guiding the quest of his roughened fingertips against the slick of come on his skin and then into the willing grasp of his mouth. Together, they clean him roughly, the bleach-sharp smell of it lingering as Pete lowers himself for a kiss.

 

They twine together on the bed stained with sweat and come, the light drape of cotton sheets against their skin. They kiss and stroke and explore, hands wandering and lips roaming as Pete thinks just a minute more, just a moment to gather himself and they can go again…

 

“You’ll stay the night?” Patrick asks, though they both know it’s not really a question.

 

“I have stuff to do,” Pete replies, like neither of them know he’s lying.

 

“Do it some other time,” Patrick smiles, hand reaching for the half-hard shaft of his cock. Pete grins back; he could spend a lifetime like this and it wouldn’t be enough, he’s sure.

 

~*~

 

Patrick sleeps.

 

He’s soft and peaceful, cotton stuck to sweat-salted skin, pooling like a waterfall over his hips. Lips parted, dry and delicately chapped, face tucked into his pillow, into the slender line of his arm, his edges bleeding into something soft around the tufted mess of his hair.

 

Pete doesn’t sleep - rarely does, at least, not when he should - his nights marked by balled paper and ink staining his fingertips, by the steady rising swell of deleted documents filling the recycling bin on his MacBook like artefacts of former glory. Well, he can’t write - or _fail_ to write - here in the plush luxury of a stranger’s townhouse, but he _can_ explore. He can steal some illicit knowledge of Patrick in the form of hidden secrets, in the knowledge of the brand of body wash in his bathroom, the kind of tea in the cabinet downstairs. So, with a breath caught hot and liquid in his lungs, he eases out from under expensive sheets and swings his legs over the edge of the mattress.

 

Patrick stirs. Pete stiffens, back straight with the rehearsed lie that he was just getting a glass of water bright on the tip of his tongue. Patrick relaxes back. Pete sighs and hauls to his feet, padding on bare soles for the hallway, underwear snagged from the floor and tugged over the narrow stretch of his hips.

 

Doors, endless doors, overlaid by the hum of the heating system and whatever other automated shit the house does for its sole occupant while he slumbers peacefully. A guest bedroom - another and another - so many guest rooms and no guests. Just Pete, quiet and ghostly in the mirror in the hallway, as he climbs the stairs once more. One door up here, just one, the stripped oak warm under his fingertips as he nudges it open and steps inside.

 

Books and glass, books and glass, the room is constructed entirely of a rainbow of books and so much shimmering glass shielding shimmering moonlight. It takes his breath away.

 

There’s a desk, a MacBook neatly lined up in the centre, the chair at just the right angle to take in the view of the city, the green-turned-silver roll of Lincoln Park below them. And the MacBook - Pete notices - has a blinking light, a siren call, markers on a runway that urge his fumbled feet across the hardwood.

 

There’s no password - of course there isn’t, who else would see? - just a mint-tinted document that he scrolls through with increasing desperation. It’s perfection, a canvas of beautiful prose that brings the taste of the storyline bright on his tongue. It’s crafted perfectly, hanging together on witty turns of phrase that the hipsters will tweet to one another like poetry slams in pixels.

 

Jealousy claws him bloody, leaves him breathless with anticipation as he scrolls to the top, itching with the need to click command and A, the tap of delete and watch it all vanish. It’s titled, because of course it is, stark, bold print for writing that’s better. Better than Pete’s. Better than anything he’s read in the past decade. Just... better.

 

_Soul Punk._

 

_Patrick Stump._

 

Wait.

 

Wait the fuck up.

 

The books are on the desk, lined up like sentinels to judge him from their lofty grandeur of _modern classic_. _The Lost Astoria, Sunset in my Veins, G.I.N.A.S.F.S._ (witty, clever, Pete had raged with it at the time) and _Last Night’s Stage,_ he turns them all over, every which way, examining the headshot for some kind of link to the man glowing golden on the sheets downstairs. It can’t be, _he_ can’t be, the kid on the books wears a hat, has stupid sideburns and eyes that glow blue to grey in shimmering light like undertow, has lips painted pink and plush tucked up into a shy smile and…

 

Fuck.

 

Fingers ball to fists, nails biting sharp into his palms as his knuckles glow the same pale as the skin that crests Patrick’s cheekbones. Patrick Stump. He’s Patrick fucking _Stump_ and Pete feels like a fool. He’s heard murmurings about this book on the grapevine, chatter from his publisher that Patrick - “the new Pete Wentz” - has been offered a seven figure advance for the new novel, that it’s bold and daring in all of the ways Pete’s writing is predictable and drenched in ego. Okay, he might have added that last part himself but still, he’s the _actual_ Pete Wentz and no one’s offering _him_ seven figure advances.

 

Jealousy tastes unpleasant and sour at two in the morning, hunched over a stranger’s laptop.

 

He presses command, the stretch of his thumb easily reaching A.  The screen highlights with grey, close to one hundred thousand words that he can decimate with a keystroke.

 

He pauses.

 

“Couldn’t sleep?”

 

Pete swears he almost leaps out of skin, vision washing white as his heart thrums a messy throb, as his stomach pitches and the ground sways beneath him. He slams the laptop closed and pivots, hands behind his back, to consider the vision of a gloriously naked Patrick propped in the doorway by a shoulder. He shakes his head silently as embarrassment, shock and anger battle for which will kill him first via the medium of a premature heart attack on a stranger’s hardwood floor.

 

“You’re Patrick Stump,” he hisses like it’s an accusation, finger pointed directly at the chest glowing pale and smooth in the moonlight that filters through the window behind him. “You’re Patrick _Stump_ and you didn’t tell me.”

 

“You didn’t ask,” he shrugs. He combs his fingers through his hair, the fall of his bangs over his forehead the most delicious distraction. “Were you looking at my computer?”

 

“No.” Guilt stabs Pete in the stomach, his cheeks heating flame-bright. “I mean… yes. Maybe a little. You won a fucking _Pulitzer,_ man.”

 

“Rigged bullshit, right?” Patrick smiles, sweet and lovely, tooth-bright and eyes soft as he crosses the room to flip the laptop open once more, a self-deprecating shrug hitching his shoulders, “No one ever gets it.”

 

“Gets what?” Pete drops down into the desk chair, the leather cool against his back, Patrick warm against his chest as he pulls him down to curl in his lap.

 

“Everything I wrote,” Patrick shrugs once more and blushes, flushed pink and lovely. “It was supposed to be read alongside your work. Like, _The Lost Astoria_ is for _Take This to Your Grave, Last Night’s Stage_ sits with _Folie_ , you know? I guess… I guess it’s like a song, I took your lyrics and I gave them a melody, at least… I tried to. Does that make sense?”

 

Pete nods because somehow - in some strange way that’s probably aided entirely by the insomnia giving way to exhaustion burning and curling his edges - it makes perfect sense. He looks at the screen, at the clever way Patrick has hooked his ideas to words, the way it twists into something surprising, something beautiful and perfectly _him_.

 

“So, what’s this?” he asks, as Patrick scrolls through idly.

 

“This is my voice,” Patrick smiles with the softest touch of sincerity, fingers laced with Pete’s. “Me… stepping into my own spotlight, I guess.”

 

There’s an idea shifting at the far reaches of Pete’s minds, a series of plot points niggling away at him as he strokes a hand over the line of Patrick’s hip. He presses his lips to the curve of Patrick’s neck, tongue curling to taste salt and skin and the bitter bite of cologne. His hand slips lower, tracing the velvet touch of Patrick’s half-hard shaft. Patrick shifts, legs spread and head tipped back, sighing sweet surrender into Pete’s hair as he arches his hips in invitation.

 

“Did you come looking for me?” Pete demands, fingers circling the tacky, tender tip of Patrick’s prick. “In the coffee shop?”

 

“Just a lucky coincidence,” Patrick chuckles like he’s lying, turning on Pete’s lap to straddle his hips, lips brushing soft in the artificial glow of the laptop screen. “Do you believe in fate?”

 

“Maybe I’ll write a book about it,” Pete quirks a grin, already consigning _Use your Disillusion_ to the rank of novella. “A new one, based on fresh inspiration. A protagonist with hidden depths, you know? A Jekyll and Hyde for the iPhone generation.”

 

“What will you name it?” Patrick grinds down against him and eclipses rational thought, his vision reduced to pale skin that glows ethereal in the darkness, to eyes that shine like planets and fill Pete’s head with words that read like lyrics.

 

“Save Rock and Roll.”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback is lovely, seriously. Comments, kudos, what have you, those are all awesome.
> 
> You can also come chat to me on [Tumblr.](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/sn1tchesandtalkers)


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